Broken Wings, Leashed Spirit
by Late to the Party
Summary: A demi-god's might is awesome to behold; Winski learned this watching Sarevok, and Aerie learns it watching [Charname]. Tortured, hunted, tainted; when love ones die and companions are murdered, what happens when a Bhaalspawn is broken? What happens to those around her? What happens to the realms? What if there is no redemption? What is left except to become death? Or Murder. AU.
1. Broken Wings

**Disclaimer: I don't own any of the names, characters, setting contained within. Bioware/Black Isle/Interplay does.**

A/N: Please be aware there are some dark themes in this piece, though nothing in graphic detail.  
If one feels in need of spoilers/tags for such themes: _choose not to warn / violence / sadism / rape / murder_

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Broken Wings, Leashed Spirit

"Yes m-mistress."

Aerie's head drooped. Her 'mistress' didn't even nod; obedience was expected; loyalty, demanded. The former avariel's eyes flickered up. She was ready to begin chanting at a moment's notice. Nearby her companions stood ready, each in their own way, each fanned out around the abyssal chamber.

Slowly, Aerie took stock. There were so few of them left.

Amelyssan the Blackhearted's lifeless corpse danced as a puppet. Xzar's machinations, after Melyssa – Lysa – had snapped her arms at the elbows, and then stamped on her knees, and each of her ribs. Then the true torment began, as Amelyssan found herself inflicted with the remnants of her dead god's power, carried and focused by the former babe her knife once swore to slay. Aerie hadn't even shuddered.

With each of her screams, Lysa had torn the truth from her. Amelyssan had approached them in Trademeet, inviting them to Saradush, but Lysa recognised something in Bhaal's former priestess. Whether it was the dead god's taint, or something else, Aerie wasn't sure, but as Amelyssan whimpered and shrieked, any sympathy Aerie might have once felt died. Not even the hells was punishment enough for the 'Blackhearted'.

Xzar, giggling to himself, mimicked the popping noise every so often. He hadn't been able to voice his thoughts very well since Monty had sewn his mouth shut. Xzar even seemed to prefer it; it made eating more of a hassle. One of Xzar's new favourite games was to slurp as loudly as he could through the straw, until Monty hit him.

The sword of Chaos, Sarevok's sword, pierced Bhaal's throne. The tears surrounding it lit, flaring with the silent screams of the murdered. Sarevok's sword stood three heads taller than her, even buried. Lysa released the grip, turned and waited.

Aerie took a deep breath, the crossed strips of her blackened breastplate breathing with her. They awaited the last. There was nothing to do but wait. Aerie's gaze drifted towards the glowing green portal, and to the pocket plane beyond. She wondered if this really was the end, the final battle, or if this was simply a dream. Had any of them ever truly awoken from the battle of Suldanessellar? Or was this really the fate her soul was condemned to? Over the rim of her helm's cheek guard, she glanced to her right; in front of Bhaal's throne, beneath the dais, a huge column descended, seemingly endless, its arched alcoves once filled with stone avatars. Now, there were but two.

She risked another glance. Could it really happen? Could Lysa really ascend? Could she really become the Lady of Murder?

Could she, Aerie, really aid her in that? Lysa's eyes flickered towards her. The flaming sword in the former avariel's hand dipped, as did her raven-feathered wings.

Safana caught her eye and winked over her dagger's pommel, its point spinning on her fingertip. Her ever present coyness, that half smile, danced through her eyes, her lips half pursed. Unlike Aerie, she wore long robes, hooded, black, split to reveal slender, bare thighs, her knees and calves held by tightly laced boots. She seemed to have no doubts, stood unfazed by Lysa's cool, and patted the imp, Lysa's imp, on the head, before blowing a kiss towards Xzar, who recoiled as Monty scowled.

Inhaling slightly, Aerie wondered where she drew her strength from, where it had all gone wrong. She felt the slave collar around her throat, and allowed her eyes to close. A gift. A reminder. Lysa's humourless, matter-of-fact dismissal to the sick and twisted jape; Aerie couldn't even remember how it had started, only that Safana had retrieved the collars, for each of them, and Edwin had changed their nature, augmenting them with his magic, linking them to Lysa.

Aerie could remember his reluctance, his sullen and bitter anger, and the sickening stench from the illithid. The Red Wizard has suggested bracelets, armlets, rings, even earrings; Lysa hadn't cared, and demanded he make the attempt, using what was there. Maybe that had been the day she had truly surrendered herself, but the truth was she had already been lost long before Lysa found her.

There could be no redemption; she had only been fooling herself believing in some vain, forlorn hope that maybe, somehow the world worked differently, that it could work differently. Aerie looked at Lysa, sadness touching her eyes. She understood now what she failed to accept for so very long. Through the collar, Aerie felt Lysa's power fill her, strengthening her. She could feel the taint, pulsing, gnawing, raging, held back by Lysa's will alone. They were linked now, all of them, had been since they first donned the collars; then it was weak, diminished. Now, now they could draw on the essence of Bhaal's slain spawn, the essence locked within each of his bastards, held within his throne.

Aerie shivered; the final rites were complete, and each of them stood, servants of the demi-god, brimming with immortal power. Yet, if Lysa could wield the binding, could not the last also access the essence inside the throne?

Lysa's lack of smile was grim. Aerie understood that look. Her eyes refocused on the portal.


	2. Spectres

Melyssa had a pretty name, Aerie used to think, as she had first gazed up into the rounded, glow of her saviour. Fair in complexion and looks, her cheeks gave lie with the brightness of youth. The scars that crisscrossed her body were fine, so very fine, except for a few jagged marks along her sternum.

Aerie remembered the time Lysa had made Xzar insert a soulgem beside her heart. That had given her the shivers for so many nights. Even for Lysa, that was creepy. It kind of made sense at the time though. It still made sense. A last ditch attempt to trap her essence, her… self if anyone ever slew her. A phylactery of sorts. Xzar had warded it with more enchantments than even Edwin knew how to respond to. But… Lysa saw her flesh as nothing more than a golem ever since Aerie had known her. Xzar's needlework had been so fine, and he had sewn enchantments into her flesh, enchanting the thread.

Lysa's eyes weren't just haunted, they were shadowed, deadened. Even after she had nailed Irenicus to Suldanessellar's Tree of Life, the city's queen, Ellesime, staring in horror as she set the tree ablaze, its towering flames adding to the ravaged city, Lysa's eyes had stayed untouched. They had been dragged into the abyss that day, she, Xzar, Monty, Edwin and Safana…

There were walls infused with green, infernal flame, running in patterns, their trails pulsing dark to light, darting around. The souls of those Lysa had slain. They met them, again, their fallen companions.

Faces Aerie knew, and those she had not known. Shar-Teel, who had taught Aerie how to kill, how to enjoy killing. Viconia had poisoned Shar-Teel over a slight from before; Lysa later informed Aerie that she had sheltered the drow when she, Safana, Faldorn, Eldoth, Edwin, Xzar and Monty had found her at a farmstead outside Beregost, near Baldur's Gate. Viconia had murdered the farmer and his sons; she claimed they had tortured her and worse, burying her alive, but not deeply enough. She had clawed her way out in the night, and exacted her revenge. They had found her sitting amongst the last, begging for death. Lysa had listened, looked into the drow's eyes, and pressed her boot down on the youngest son's throat.

Later, they were found by Shar-Teel, and in the city of Baldur's Gate, after they had slain Sarevok, Viconia had left Lysa, stealing away in the night. In the inn, Shar-Teel had sneered at Viconia, calling her a coward and more besides.

As Shar-Teel, the strongest of them, gasped her last in the backstreets of Athkatla, city of coin, Lysa took Viconia's hands in her own, one in each, and proceeded to break each of the drow's fingers in turn, and then her wrists. Monty had gagged her from behind, standing on Xzar's shoulders. Then, her own fingers digging into the drow's graceful neck, Lysa dragged her to the government district, and outside the prison, yanked off the drow's hood, and called to the onlookers. Soon a crowd formed, and a priest of Beshaba was attracted to the din. A pyre was erected, and Lysa watched coldly as Viconia was burnt alive. The blood debt she owed Shar-Teel was paid with the last gasp of Viconia's screams.

Aerie remembered how even Monty's face paled, how Xzar muttered to himself. Shar-Teel had not been broken by Irenicus, but had resisted, and for the most part, he had ignored her, instead focusing on Lysa and Imoen. Shar-Teel barely spoke of it, but Aerie had understood some of the humiliation involved for the proud warrioress, the revenge she had sworn. Aerie had never met Imoen, and Lysa had mentioned her only in passing; the two had grown up together, as sisters, but not all sisters saw eye to eye. At first, Aerie thought it must have been nice to have a sister, but Imoen had pranked Lysa one too many times for Lysa to forgive her, and saw her childish antics as unwelcome. She had taken a broom to the younger girl, and threatened to bust up her nose the next time she got her into trouble. The beating was severe enough Imoen crawled away into a corner and didn't speak to her until they were reunited in the Abyssal pocket plane.

Imoen had been amongst the faces, her spirit given spectral form. She had escaped Irenicus' cage the day the Shadow Thieves of Amn had raided his lair, but had been cut down during the fighting. Lysa faced her dead sister dispassionately, without questioning why she tried to flee, if she would have left her trapped in the jar. If facial expressions spoke at all, Imoen's was one of shame and confusion. Lysa's wasn't.

Gorion had been there. Lysa had not even acknowledged him, and Aerie had only learned his name because of Lysa's imp, a creature she backhanded often, even though it caused her pain. When she caught the imp talking to Aerie about it, pretending to be sly and puffing itself up, she gave it such a beating the imp squealed and begged her for mercy. Aerie had never seen an imp cry so piteously before; it reminded her of a bawling child, helpless before its furious mother. Unable to mask its thoughts from its mistress, all it could do was plead uselessly.

Once before, Aerie had gathered it up into her arms after Lysa had given it a slapping so sound it had curled up into a ball. Aerie had noticed that she had never broken any of its bones, or dislocated or sprained it, and she had never offered the imp healing, only a cuddle. The look Lysa had given her was enough to make the former avariel swallow, but still to hold onto the grey creature. Then the imp had bitten her, and she dropped it with a yelp. Pulling back, tears had filled her eyes, its needle-like teeth having pierced her arm; droplets began to spill. Lysa said nothing, but lifted the imp up and slapped its face hard enough to turn it pink. This time, Aerie let it bawl.

Aerie had never been certain if the imp had bitten her of its own accord, or because Lysa had commanded it to, or if it were out of fear.

She had a soft spot for the imp ever since those first days after the circus as they travelled towards Nalia's Keep. The imp would made advances towards Monty, whispering things that caused the halfling to redden, and ball his fists, threatening to gut his 'admirer', to which Lysa growled that if the imp died, Monty died, and savagely backhanded the creature as Xzar threw his arms around Monty, exclaiming, "Oh no, not Monty!". Monty shoved the filthy mage off cursing. It was shortly after that incident that Monty sewed up Xzar's mouth.

Nalia's was another face. Aerie had never liked Nalia; she was never something to be pitied. Nalia had been devoured by Yuan-ti, half devoured, before Monty ended the abomination, and Lysa put the young noblewoman out of her misery. After looting the remnants, as was their due, they fired the keep, Faldorn calling on the nearby trees to help break the sewers. The blackened husk had made a fitting pyre, purifying the Yuan-ti stench, or so Faldorn declared. They never had found out who was behind the invasion.

The faces of two half elves had joined Gorion's spectre, neither one someone Aerie knew. The imp had warily informed her that Jaheira, the she-elf had a blazing row with Lysa, and left. They had met in the Friendly Arm Inn, and a bounty hunter had poisoned Khalid, her husband, the male elf, and would have poisoned them all, had they eaten the stew. But Lysa wasn't hungry, and Jaheira was too busy lecturing her, and they had made it as far as Beregost before parting ways. The imp laughed at that, because the next face was a dwarf, holding a bloodied half axe. The imp then pointed at Jaheira, and Aerie understood. She hadn't asked how Lysa had managed to make ends meet before she was joined by Xzar and Monty, whom she had found in the Feldepost Inn.

Kagain, a dwarf, who had offered Lysa employment, had met his end with Monty's dagger in the back of his neck after three xvart arrows pierced his mailed gut. Monty then lifted Kagain's purse, and upon their return to Beregost, the halfling looted the dwarf's shop as their 'payment'. With that scant coin, he and Xzar were able to find enough 'volunteers' to make it to Nashkel after approaching Beregost's mayor and proposing a 'trading expedition'. It was considered a fool's errand, but 'the bigoted priest' wanted answers and more importantly coin, so he gave them his blessing. The imp chortled at this. Eight was enough or so they thought. Lysa, still hounded by bounty hunters, tagged along, and Eldoth was one of their companions. The rest had been a mix of desperate folk from Beregost, and a couple of naïve fools, the imp had narrated, searching around for their faces. Of the eight sell swords that set out, only Eldoth had made it to Nashkel in one piece. Monty, Xzar and Lysa obviously had, but not without wounds.

In Nashkel, they met Edwin, a Red Wizard of Thay, and he offered his services in exchange for a spot of bounty hunting: a Rashemen witch. Monty accepted, begrudgingly, but only after Nashkel's mayor claimed the mines were infested with demons. However, having lost more 'swords', actually, sticks, the imp guffawed, to Aerie's confusion, they were short on clubs. The imp explained all the iron was 'rotting', when Aerie pressed, and Xzar and Monty believed it emanated from the Nashkel mines, as they were the source of all iron for the region. It seemed somewhat unbelievable, but Aerie had heard tales of this iron-eating plague back in the circus. She had dismissed it as rumour then, but the imp was adamant and seemed insulted at Aerie's scepticism; she had to appease his ego by widening her eyes for him to continue.

Edwin and Eldoth had played a vicious game with Lysa, each courting her in his own way; Edwin wanted to make her his concubine, Eldoth his whore, and each had laid wagers with the other in ever more ridiculous sums. After telling that she would consent to sharing her bed with both, if they were prepared to entertain her at the same time instead of taking it in turns, she waited for their answer. Before they agreed, she held up her finger, and said "but you two go first. Unless you boys are _scared_?" The imp sniggered and mimed big, large eyes. After copious amounts of firewine and some black lotus, unwilling to lose their wager, Edwin finally slammed his hand down on the table and agreed, his face flushed. Eldoth shrugged.

The imp suggested that Lysa had walked out on them, having no interest in their wager, before they had ever touched her. She dropped a couple of coins on the floor, the cost of a night with a whore, and left them to it, then invited the rest of the inn to watch. Nashkel's harlots, she told the innkeep, would be paid handsomely by the pair if they participated. Eldoth hadn't seemed to mind, but Edwin was determined never to speak of it again, when he finally got over his raging headache. The imp then mimed Edwin's walk over the next day and a half, imitating the Red Wizard's robes, and matching his facial expressions with an uncanny accuracy. Its impression of Eldoth was one of exceptional smugness.

Far too much detail for Aerie's liking.

More faces had glided by. There was Bodhi's, her features consorted with hate. Aerie remembered how Lysa had pinned the vampire to her coffin, staking her shoulders and hips, and then breaking her arms and legs. Lysa was heavily pregnant at that point. Bodhi had never seen her niece. Lysa dragged the coffin outside, and then they waited for the sunlight.

Then there was the baby. Aerie couldn't look. Lysa had held it up in front of Irenicus. Its ears were delicately tipped, its eyes Irenicus', its mouth its human mother's. Aerie had never asked if Lysa miscarried, or if she had stopped her father's lineage with its first breath. Its body had joined its mortal father, and Ellesime had wept and screamed as the flames took hold.

Unlocking Lysa's "potential" had seen her seen her combine her innate gifts with her new focus: mage slaying. That she herself dabbled in the Art seemed irrelevant.

Imoen had been with child too, but whoever fathered it did not stand beside her. The faces did not speak, at least, not with words, but Aerie could guess. Had it been Irenicus, or another Bhaalspawn the wizard had captured? She couldn't have imagined Irenicus allowing Imoen to keep the child of another… unless he wanted to seize its soul. But the belly of Imoen's spectre hadn't looked heavy, only slight, but her ethereal hands had moved to cover her bump. No one had said anything.

Aerie had asked when Lysa had summoned her imp. The imp had confessed to being called to Lysa from her dreams, and found itself banished and recalled as a matter of course. The first time Lysa awoke to finding it there, she half strangled the creature. When it kicked itself, she yelped and let go. Since then, Lysa had learnt to tolerate the pain; the imp biting itself to get her attention had ceased to be effective after the first few years. It had proven itself useful, it bragged, acquiring elixirs and potions from Phlydia's lab. The old alchemist's memory was clouding, so she simply made more, wondering aloud where she had misplaced her vials. The imp also searched the catacombs and brought back ancient, crumbling scrolls. Lysa never asked where the critter found them.

Phlydia's figure drifted by, still bearing the gashes from the doppelgängers' claws.

Eddard Silvershield was another. The imp mimed a big heart, and made sweetheart eyes, looking towards Lysa. Her own were lost when she saw Eddard's spectre, then walked through the young man as though he were simply gone; the white mist swirled around her and faded. The imp then confided that the two had been of an age, and Eddard had visited Candlekeep with his brat sister since childhood. In his fourteenth year, Lysa had noticed him, and watched him from the boughs of a tree, and Imoen, a few years younger, had decided to cause trouble and flinched pies. The purple smears on both Eddard and Lysa's tunics had earned them a sound scolding from Tethtoril and Karan. Lysa's shame had been great, and in return, she had pinched Imoen savagely. The imp wondered why she hadn't ordered it to drop itching powder in Imoen's laundry, as Imoen had done in return, but Lysa wasn't that way inclined. That was when she had taken a broom to the girl.

Sarevok's lackeys had slain Eddard after Lysa had entered Baldur's Gate; his brigands had ambushed the caravan he was playing guard duty for, part of his application for the 'Order of the Radiant Hart'. Eddard as a paladin and Lysa never would have worked out, but she didn't see it that way. In the scuffle to capture him, for ransom, Eddard had got stabbed, and bled out. Another paladin, Ajantis, had been involved but had escaped. Later, Lysa had discovered that Skie, distraught and in Candlekeep, had run off, dragging Imoen with her.

There were shades around Imoen the former avariel hadn't recognised, but the knowledge of the place had been imparted to Lysa, and through her, the imp. Aerie gave it a questioning eyebrow, and then offered the imp its favourite treat: firewine fruit tart. Jessa Vai, an officer of the Flaming Fist, and Laurel, a paladin. Alora, a halfling, and Skie. There were many shades… copies of each person, all except Alora. Upon closer inspection, twin fangs glistened from the halfling; almost all of the shades bore fang marks. Aerie counted over three dozen of each shade, including copies of Imoen.

After public uproar over a spree of 'relieving' drunk and drunken sleeping patrons in each of Beregost's various inns and taverns, Jessa Vai set a trap, caught and arrested Skie and Imoen. Throwing the duo into a cell with Alora seemed the only sensible option; Alora was of an age and similar disposition to the girls, and wasn't a hardened cutthroat, and the only other female prisoner in the cellars.

Choosing not to ruin her future prospects by incarcerating and risking the lifelong wrath of at least one of the Silvershields, the officer decided to uphold the law with a liberal interpretation; she made them an offer. Placing them in Laurel's care, a paladin who frequented the inn Vai was temporarily stationed at, in exchange for a fair wage, the issued tasks that suited the trio and Laurel's talents. Later on, Vai joined them.

Before Vai returned to the city of Baldur's Gate, Bodhi ambushed them. Aerie's eyes lowered, tracing the patterns of green fire beneath the floor. She imagined such a bright hope in the trio's eyes, and then she saw the broken deadness in the gaze of Imoen's spectre. The imp shrugged and chomped on its tart.

Lysa shot Aerie a look without looking; she could feel Lysa's eyes. The imp didn't seem to be able to get fat, no matter how many tarts it inhaled, but Aerie understood.

Many more faces drifted by, faces that meant nothing, faces that had lost meaning. Even Quayle's face had lost its import. Quayle, who had sheltered her, who had caused Alora to leave Baldur's Gate, because he found her too light-fingered, too distracted by shiny fancies for the circus. Aerie remembered the tales he told her of the Hall of Wonders in 'the Gate', the common name for Baldur's city. He told her tales as she lay there, after they had hacked off her wings, the circus as much a buyer from the slave trade as anyone else in Amn. Quayle had nursed her back to health, regaling her with every jape he knew, every tale he could tell as her spirit diminished, until finally making her laugh. But that was a lifetime ago.

Then there was Kalah, the stagehand to the old gnome. Bitter, envious, and full of hate, the younger gnome had tried to murder them all, weaving spells beyond any of them, magic stolen, perhaps from the ruins of Irenicus' lair, perhaps from some wicked merchant; it did not matter where he obtained the djinn from. All that had mattered is he had murdered Quayle and many others, his magic drawing in innocent bystanders who had never mocked or ridiculed him. Lysa and her companions were also pulled in.

Scarred, and bruised, still bloodied from her escape, Lysa's wrath seemed to fuel her might, and not even Kalah's pilfered spells could stop her. Enduring invocation after invocation, she shrugged off lighting, fire, ice and acid; illusions seemed to burst before her, and she broke open his skull with a swipe of her fist. Then she raised him by his throat, his windpipe cracking beneath her grasp. It was too late for Quayle, but others had been spared his fate. Those who survived Kalah's gladiatorial games.

That face. Aerie had stared up, wondering if she was dreaming, Lysa's eyes cool as she swept over the tent as the magic unravelled. Those who were awaiting the games, women, children, huddled together, weeping. Most were more terrified of Lysa than they had been of Kalah. All Aerie could recall was her grief, and her relief, her awe, her wonder, and the young woman standing beside Lysa, her face as she leaned forwards, her touch as her healing replenished her.

Her touch was different to the indomitable rage Aerie had felt from Lysa; dark, but in a different, more primordial way; less raw, but savage, vast, wild. Lysa drew strength from the murdered, but Aerie hadn't known it at the time. In those noble eyes, she saw strength, and the young woman had seen something in her, and turned to Lysa. Aerie felt that cool regard wash over her, bore into her, felt something, something for the briefest of moments, and then it was lost. But her eyes were drawn back to the young woman's. That day, Aerie accepted her fate, and her fate accepted her.

Remorse coursed through her, mingling with regret, tinged with hatred, fear. The young woman had not escaped her choice, had not escaped at all. Her spectre lingered, facing her. In the abyssal realm, inside the pocket plane, Lysa's dead gathered, dead because of her, the dead who followed her. Aerie had lost her wings, lost everything, but that day she had pushed herself to her knees, drawn by the strength of the young woman's spirit, everything had changed, forever.

Faldorn. Aerie's lips traced the spectre's name in life, her vision branding the ethereal figure with the memory of how she had been before. Before Cernd had slain her, tracking her as a wild beast and striking at her like an assassin, before her chest had been gorged, her life's blood spurting in violent, irregular gushes. Before… she was ruined, beyond anyone's ability to heal. Lysa had torn him apart, his werewolf form snapping as the dry twigs beneath his paws. The crunch of his bones, the crack of his neck… that limp, shuddering form. As Lysa had cast him aside, Aerie had felt no remorse, no pity, only dull hatred.

She had loved Faldorn. Faldorn who had shown her understanding, compassion, who taught her to be strong, the nobility of her spirit. Faldorn, a daughter of the Uthgardt Black Raven tribe, and later, Aerie learned, one of the Shadow Druids. Faldorn had been teaching her when Cernd slew her. Aerie had called the roots of the forest to devour Cernd's corpse, draining it of its blood, much to Xzar's horror, the broken and torn pieces dragged beneath the soil. That was the day Shar-Teel took Aerie on, using her fist and words to foster her broken spirit into wrath.

Lysa had given her new wings, black feathers in place of once white, but nothing could bring Faldorn back. Aerie had knelt, swearing herself to Lysa. Her cause had not mattered; Faldorn's death did not matter. Lysa had told Aerie of what she was, of who her sire was, and that once she ascended her dead father's throne, the murdered, all murdered, would be hers. Faldorn could be restored. Quayle could be restored. Eddard. All those who had been stolen. For that, Aerie had offered her her soul.


	3. Invasion

Two more of her companions took Faldorn's place; she thought she had seen the glimmer of a smile from the spectre, but her own smile turned hard. Edwin and Eldoth stood before her.

Edwin had tried to bed her, but Faldorn and Shar-Teel had resisted his advances; Aerie followed their example. Eldoth had never cared for Faldorn, his dislike intense, irrational, unrelenting, but someone, Aerie recognised, as having uses, to be manipulated against Edwin. The haughty Red Wizard was proud, and harboured a special abhorrence for Eldoth. Lysa had snarled at both of them, telling them to back off. Gratitude at this unexpected interjection welled within Aerie, but Eldoth hadn't heeded the warning.

It was after Faldorn. She didn't remember how many days, didn't know or care about the wager Eldoth had placed with Edwin. That night, in the early hours, after draining one cup too many, Eldoth went for her. Aerie could feel his rancid breath, the wine vapours perfuming his oiled goatee, the stench of his clothes, unwashed but scented. That slicked back hair, the sheen of sweat, stale and fresh, plastered across him, the bulge in his britches, his hands as he clambered over her. His words, half whispered, half grunted, meant to be seductive, sweet, irresistible.

Aerie remembered how her knee had ached after striking him with it, how she thrashed, how his fingers closed around her wrists, how his coarse mouth pressed against her own, cutting off her invocation. How she had bitten him, drawing blood. The coppery taste of it. How his forehead butted down against hers, how her vision swam and darkness swallowed her.

Aerie later discovered Shar-Teel had hauled Eldoth off her, the man too full of his drink to do more than grope and tussle with someone of Aerie's size, but Shar-Teel was not Aerie's size. It hadn't mattered. Crushing some of the herbs she had inherited from Faldorn, and mixing it with a root, Aerie had put on a calm demeanour, and acted as if nothing had occurred. Eldoth, unable to remember, flirted as normal. With a smile, Aerie had invited him for a drink, paying the barkeep for the use of one of the backrooms. As she walked by, her slender hips swishing with deliberate purpose, she threw Edwin a coy half smile; her efforts were rewarded with the expected result, the Red Wizard's jealousy flaring as he sulked from a nearby table. Aerie had made sure he was there.

She poured Eldoth a cup demurely, leaning forwards to offer him the view. Lounging against the cushions, he had spent the first half of the afternoon settling into his cups, and now, he anticipated everything she had to offer, and the taste he would savour over Edwin, if Aerie understood him right. He helped her steady the wineskin as she feigned a wobble; she allowed his hand to slip and tug at her already lowered neckline. She pulled back as his mouth moved in, coy dancing, and setting the cup in his hand. Without taking his eyes from her, he drank as she teasingly tugged at her neckline's ties.

Then her eyes grew cold, hard, and Eldoth began to splutter. She stepped back as he reached out, his fingers clawing. Facedown he fell, attempting to crawl, his throat seizing up. As he shuddered, she dropped down, lifted his face with her forefinger, and smiled without warmth. Then she whispered how long he had left. It was relatively slow acting. Slow enough she stripped his ring and purse from him. Even if he survived, he would never sire any young; Faldorn's teachings had seen to that. Then calmly, she wheeled and walked from the room, her poise holding none of its former allure. Coldly, precisely, she turned towards Edwin, and held up Eldoth's purse. Two words were all she spoke: "He's yours."

Something dark, hungry and terrible spread across Edwin's face, understanding dawning. Hitching his robes up, he didn't quite stumble as he half scuttled, half strode into the room. As he brushed past her, Aerie murmured he had six hours and dropped the purse into his hand. A savage glee lit the Red Wizard's eyes.

When they found Eldoth's body, it was in the back of an alley a short way behind the tavern. He appeared to have choked on his own bile. No one said anything, Lysa retaining her cool, near aloofness. No one missed him.

The next day, Shar-Teel hit her, and somehow, her training began.

As Aerie watched Eldoth's spectre fade, she remembered the gut-wrenching clench she had felt, the sickness, the filth of what she had done, and then she felt Shar-Teel's fist. The huge warrioress' knuckles scraped against her delicate skin, drawing blood and scoring bruises each time. It was never enough to let her lose consciousness, but it was unrelenting. Aerie understood she deserved nothing less; she deserved far worse and more for what she had done, but there was no condemnation in Shar-Teel's eyes.

Aerie had never liked her, but grudging respect became admiration, and then, Viconia had taken her second teacher from her. Lysa had taken Shar-Teel's place, using silence to instruct, shared empathy, and slowly, the bond between them grew. She had never forgotten Lysa's promise, and Lysa never sneered at her for being weak. She never showed any softness or compassion, and slowly, Aerie accepted she would never receive any from her foes, and in allying herself with Lysa, they had made enemies of everyone around them. Aerie was there when the bounty hunters came for Lysa, there when the mayor of Trademeet tried to use them for his own gain, when Nalia tried to use them to her advantage in her hour of need. Aerie saw what Lysa did, and she saw the world they travelled through.

After Irenicus, there was Sendai. She remembered Sendai. Another drow. The invitation to her enclave, the portal to the pocket plane. The blue dragon Abazigal had found Lysa first. Draconis, the blue's son, opened a portal to the Abyss, and entered the pocket plane, believing he could destroy a mere human spawn of Bhaal alone. Lysa tore out his heart. Enraged, Abazigal renewed his war with Yaga-Shura, and after slaying the Fire Giant, followed his son.

Aerie watched as Imoen and Sarevok bore witness to Lysa's wrath. She broke the dragon's wings, her fist puncturing his scales and shattering his rib. Roaring in fury, Abazigal brought his head down, his open jaws biting down. Raising her arms to block his deadly fangs, Lysa tore his mouth apart, and the great blue wyrm exploded into golden dust.

After that, through dark dreams, the portal linked itself to her half siblings, drawing them to her, one by one. Edwin had fled, somehow escaping the battle at Suldanessellar, breaking the slave collar. He headed south, to Saradush, and offered himself to Gromnir; the half orc put his fingers through the Red Wizard's eyes, lifting him off the floor and casting him against the wall, breaking his back and neck. Gromnir proclaimed that he had no use for anyone who failed their master, as Edwin had failed his mistress.

The dream allowed Lysa to manifest before Gromnir, in his own hall, within Saradush's citadel. Aerie stood with her, a shadow beside her mistress. Gromnir snarled, declaring that a dream could not hurt him. Lysa crushed the half orc's head, and in the dream, as in life, he exploded into golden dust.

They had never left the pocket plane.

Realising how vulnerable she was, Sendai sent a communiqué in the form of her pet mindflayer. She expressed their mutual foe, Illasera the Quick, who had gained control of Saradush and the remaining Bhaalspawn there, once sworn to Gromnir, now sworn to her, their 'queen', and Balthazar, who ruled a monastery in the deserts south of Saradush.

Allowing the mindflayer closer, Lysa listened, seemingly unaware as it raised its tentacles, and wrapped them around her. Aerie could only watch, but she had felt only calm. Raw power forced itself through Lysa and up through the tentacles, and into the mindflayer's brain. Aerie felt the shockwaves as it burned the creature from the inside out, leaving only a husk.

"I accept." Lysa's single thought echoed down the portal with the mindflayer's last twitch.

Sendai arrived hours later, but time in the Abyss lacked the same meaning as the time beyond it. Anger and distaste etched themselves equally on the drow's haughty brow, and she had an assorted entourage with her. Her captain, a blademaster, looked wary, her guards cowed by the calm. Then Lysa advanced on her, and the drow ordered her followers forwards.

Aerie viewed the scene from above, her wings already spread, while Safana merely watched from one side. Her knife never left its sheath; Lysa simply walked, and the guards struck an invisible barrier around her. Aerie's focus had only been amplified by her mistress' will, as aware of each of her companions as they were of her. Xzar stood somewhere off to the side, observing everything intently. Monty was nowhere to be seen.

The blademaster danced back, rather than let his blade strike the barrier. Within her throat and mind, a series of syllables uttered, half her own will, half not, and Aerie felt her mistress' power flare within herself, and invisible tendrils from the barrier shot out, latching onto those who had struck it. Another set of syllables, this time from Xzar, and the guards' were snuffed out, as simply and as easily as Irenicus had snuffed out lives.

Sendai glanced around, then watched as the distance between herself and Lysa was swallowed up in the deliberate, powerful steps. The drow fell on her rear, her hands lifting, silently pleading, begging. The pocket plane's wall barred her exit; the portal had already closed. Safana watched the blademaster, waiting.

Rather than order her captain to defend her, Sendai, expecting no mercy, stared up into Lysa's eyes. "What did you do?" The drow demanded, hate filling her words.

The human didn't answer, but Aerie knew. Lysa had opened a portal to Bhaal's throne and bound her spirit to the essence locked within, pooling, gathering, just as her mother had always intended to do. Sendai half-heartedly moved to twist the onyx ring on her finger, but there was no effect. Almost gently, Lysa knelt down and took the drow's head gently in her hands. Trying not to tremble, Sendai stared up at her. Then it was over.

There was a quiet thud, and Safana's knife found its mark. The captain's blade moved a fraction too slowly, and deflected the steel off-centre, into his throat. Had he not, the knife might have missed granting him a quick death. Coming up behind the captain, Monty stabbed thrice with his own sword, yanked the knife from the corpse and tossed it back.

Aerie had never questioned where Safana knew Lysa from, but the imp had filled her in about a cove with sunken pirate treasure, a wrecked ship and a lighthouse, and how they had tracked a witch's berserker there, whom informed them of where his witch was to be found.

As it turned out, they had the right witch after all, and Monty calmly slid a dagger between his ribs. Safana, who had been nearby, watching from the lighthouse, called to them. It turned out she had been trying to convince the berserker to assist her, but he had been too concerned with his witch and 'justice'.

Even after his description, and his witch's, Aerie hadn't noticed their faces. They had simply been two amongst many, many more.


	4. (Un)Leashed Spirit

" _What my mother always intended to do."_

The thought rang through Aerie's head. The portal flared, and the wait was over. Monty and Safana quietly laid bets on who would step through: Illasera or Balthazar. They were both wrong. The man that stepped through was Elar Had, a servant of Gromnir. Presumably, he had fought through the ranks, betraying Illasera, and somehow, overcoming Balthazar, or slaying whoever had survived their duel.

Lysa barely smiled. Standing with Sarevok's sword at her back, she gestured simply for Had to stand before her. Eyes everywhere, he surveyed the through, hungrily, warily. The prize was in sight. Through the portal, others would have swarmed through, but Lysa had sealed it. Had's momentary surprise was joined by anger, but Lysa held up her hand. It would be just the two of them.

She made to step forwards, and Had nodded. Monty's knife slid between his ribs, the halfling having circled around the back of the portal from the shadows. Had sank to his knees, bubbles of blood rising to his lips, a half strangled, feeble cough unable to project the betrayal his eyes did. With a slight shrug, Monty's sword reached around and cut a path across Had's throat. The robed mage gave out. With a half gallant, half sardonic bow, Monty saluted the new Lady of Murder.


End file.
